


From Eden

by CloverTheGrand



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, M/M, no editing we fall like crowley
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:48:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28373421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CloverTheGrand/pseuds/CloverTheGrand
Summary: In the beginning, a serpent met the angel of Eden’s Eastern Gate. Only, the serpent did not meet the angel, per se, but rather slithered away the second he was seen. And so commenced 6000 years of history, always being within each other's presence but never exactly meeting, like a pair of parallel lines.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 35





	From Eden

Under a lush, green thicket, shielded from the eye of Heaven, the serpent of Eden slithered.

The serpent could've climbed up the wall-- he was curious whether Adam and Eve were out beyond the walls. 

He would've if it wasn't for one thing.

An angel was standing on top of the wall, dressed in robes of sunlight. 

The serpent had seen that angel before, perched on top of the walls, guarding the garden's Eastern gate. Didn't he have a flaming sword? What happened to it? The serpent wondered whether he could ask the angel that. He did not know how the angel would answer that question, if at all, or if he would smite him-- any talking animal was a surefire way of letting the angel know that the serpent was a demon. Not only that, but he would've suspected that the demon was the one behind Adam and Eve's escape.

He slithered towards the base of the walls, wondering if it was wiser to not go at all or to slip into a more humanoid form familiar enough for the angel. Then at least it'd be a little less clear whether he was a demon or a fellow angel.

But the angel must've heard him slither through the branches, because he turned around. For a second, their gaze met.

And so the serpent fled.

* * *

Crawley had seen glimpses of the angel throughout history while they lived in Mesopotamia. That was that. Glimpses. When Noah and his sons were building an ark.

Crawley did not think much of it other than that. They had better things to worry about. Such as what to do with all the leftover kids. 

* * *

She had shown him all the kingdoms in the world. And now the Roman soldiers nailed him to a cross and hoisted him up, like some sort of scarecrow. 

Crowley did not know what Jesus had preached, but for this to happen it must’ve been controversial. 

The angel was here also, amidst the crowd of people. Yes, she saw cameos of the angel then and there. Thousands of years later and still not much change in hair nor garb. Crowley could only imagine how cold and clinical Heaven must think of Jesus’ crucifixion, and how this was part of their great plan. 

As the son of God cried to Heaven, Crowley bowed her head, and, in the privacy of her own mind, mourned. Alone. 

* * *

Caligula was, for a lack of better words, nuts. Declaring war on Poseidon by ordering his soldiers to stab the sea? Why, that spoke for itself. 

In a drunken daze, inside some place in Rome, Crowley muttered all of these deeds in an oration, letting the alcohol do the talking.

That was, until a sight made him stop.

A tuft of white, downy hair. 

Yes, several thousands years had passed and still the angel did not change hairstyles. How long was the angel sitting there? The angel didn’t seem to notice him, no. He was sitting with his back facing Crowley, playing a Roman board game. However it then came to Crowley that there was a likelihood the angel heard everything.

Or maybe not, perhaps? Perhaps the angel had just arrived at Petronicus'. He didn't appear to be too affected-- still merrily playing that board game of his.

But the angel wasn't facing him, so there really wasn't any way of knowing just how much he had heard. 

Crowley didn't feel like sticking around to know that though. Leave it to be Schrödinger's cat and call it a day.

* * *

Metal armour always proved to be incredibly cramped, especially for an occult being with two extra appendages squeezed into the shoulders.

Crowley found that his wings tended to explode whenever he engaged in swordfighting, which, given his current alias as the black knight, happened a lot. The armour kept the wings in check, at least. Like pressing down the lid of a jack-in-a-box so that you could crank the handle as much as you want without making the puppet burst. Very useful when fighting in front of humans. Especially now, when a knight from Arthur’s round table, challenged Crowley’s black knight persona to a duel. 

He sounded like a kindly fellow, with his voice soft like tufts of clouds. But oh he fought like a bastard. Yes, he was very good, as expected for a knight, or even a soldier. For a human. Crowley was never made for fighting, yet he reckoned he held his ground well. 

Of course, then the knight’s horse decided to trip Crowley. Horses. Crowley never cared for horses. Animals never seemed to like him much, not even Hellhorses which were issued for each demon. Crowley prepared for the knight to smite him. But he simply shook his hand, making an agreement that he “shan’t be stirring much trouble in these regions anymore,” and then left.

In the excitement, Crowley’s wings had burst inside his armour. The metal stopped it from fully stretching out, but nevertheless, several of his raven-black feathers had slipped out of the armour and onto the ground. Not a lot of humans saw it, especially because of all the fog, but Crowley did not like leaving evidence of himself everywhere he went, so he knelt down and picked them up, one by one. 

However as he picked them up, something caught his eye. Crowley stared. Then he lifted up his visor.

On the ground was a long, white feather.

* * *

He still preferred his funny ones. 

Crowley stroked his goatee as the titular star of Shakespeare’s latest work, _Hamlet_ , recited a monologue while holding a skull. Very on-the-nose metaphor there, but anything by Bill that wasn’t _Titus Andronicus_ was a win. 

The angel was not only here again, but he frequented this place. He seemed to adore visiting the globe theatre, happily chewing grapes as he watched Shakespeare’s work. There was one time when Crowley was squeezed close enough to the angel (it was inside the globe’s pit where the commoners watched. He wasn’t always made out of money, was he?) to see that the angel actually mouthed the lines that the actors spoke, a bright, manic glimmer in his eyes.

This time, there were very little people inside the Globe Theatre. And the lack of people to surround him made Crowley feel incredibly naked, so he took the opportunity to buy a half-price ticket for a seat in the Heavens (hey, it was technically blasphemy. And you don’t get as great of a view downstairs). The angel still stood in the pit, close to the stage, cheering the actor on.

Shakespeare himself was walking across the pit like a lost ant, then walked over to the angel. He said something to the angel, then shook his balding head as he walked away. 

And Crowley swore, the angel seemed to deflate. It was no wonder— it didn’t take much to see that the angel was quite the fan of theatre. Something funny to flop inside Crowley's innards.

And then an idea popped inside his head.

It would take quite the miracle to make _Hamlet_ a hit.

* * *

Poor angel, locked up inside of the Bastille, dressed up to the nines in silk and lace like the Bourgeoisie. And in the middle of a revolution, too! He might as well have hung a bloody neon sign around his neck.

Crowley watched as the executioner left the angel’s cell, then slipped into the empty one next to it. 

Of course, he needed to be careful about what miracles he did. Some of the earlier miracles Crowley had done were simply something indirect. But someone in Hell wrote down and recorded all of Crowley’s miracles. If, say, a baron or any sort of lord saw that Crowley helped an angel escape… let’s just say Hell did not send rude notes like up there.

Crowley scrunched up his nose and sniffed. Good thing it was quite damp inside the Bastille. Crowley really didn’t like the damp. He had to hide inside the swamps of Louisiana for a temptation that one time. Got scale rot because of it. Absolutely dreadful. They really needed to give better insulations in prisons. High humidity in the air caused metals to rust, did it not? And if the metal equipment rusted, that'd let all the criminals escape. Wouldn’t be a sound way to run a prison.

There was a clunk from the other side of the wall as the shackles fell off the angel's wrists. It wasn’t his doing, no. All Crowley suggested was how damp the Bastille was.

So imagine his confusion when he saw the angel, standing next to a crêpe cart at the plaza, eating crêpes as he licked his fingers. Only that he wore the red pantalons and Phrygian cap as that sans-culotte.

Meanwhile, the sans-culottes was at a guillotine, wearing the pale lacy outfit that the angel wore. 

Could it be? No… but if it was… a chill went up Crowley's spine. 

So that angel could choose to be quite the bastard.

* * *

Crowley tore the brioche apart as he stood in front of the duck pond the angel frequented in St. James Park.

He hoped to somehow make amends with the angel after what happened last week. Bought a treat for the ducks— brioche from a French bakery. He thought that the angel might appreciate it. 

He pulled out his pocket watch. But the time seemed to be forever stuck at 3 o’clock, so Crowley, with a scorn, shook it and shoved it back into his waistcoat. It didn't take an idiot to know that the angel was late.

Later than his usual schedule. The angel frequented St. James Park once a week for promenades often. Crowley just happened to see the angel visit the park out of the corner of his eye while the barons of Hell summoned him there to talk about temptations. 

Crowley really did believe that the angel would be indifferent about the request. They were not friends, not acquaintances, they did not know each others’ names for Heav- for Go- for somebody’s sake. And the probability that the angel knew who he was was next to nil. 

Crowley really did think that if he made it clear to the angel that he was a demon, he could let himself be known while still maintaining a level of distance. Best case scenario, the angel won't connect the dots, and it would just be a freak encounter the angel would say to his other angel friends. 

Crowley had steadied himself with his walking stick as he stood, a little closer to the angel than would be allowed, watching him feed the ducks at his favourite duck pond. The angel definitely would have noticed him by now.

"Good day,” the angel greeted. “Lovely weather today, isn't it?" 

Why wasn't he surprised at how the angel talked? Crowley remembered his mission and so he tilted his glasses down, low enough so that the angel would see those slitted eyes of his. It was a sure fire way of letting him know that he was a demon. Crowley expected the angel to glance away and be driven by caution to do whatever Crowley asked.

But the angel held his gaze for a very long time. It was a very bold action, but one that had something to do with more than just nerve. Suddenly, Crowley was very much aware of the heart that drummed inside of his human corporation.

"I know you,” the angel marvelled, his impossibly blue eyes fixated on Crowley’s.

Eden. Even though Crowley fled, their gazes had met.

It'd be quite hard to forget those golden snake eyes of his.

Did the angel wonder who he was as well? Think: 'who was that serpent?' Had the angel ever noticed that he was there, hiding in the backgrounds? Well, there were certain times when that was inevitable. But was he ever aware that someone was always somehow by him throughout the centuries thanks to coincidence? All those miracles, did the angel ever have a suspicion of where, or who it came from?

He did not feel like finding out. Crowley then hid his eyes behind his glasses again and passed the note to the angel. The angel looked at him with a troubled gaze. 

“I need insurance,” he stated.

The angel blinked, then slowly unfurled the note. But when he saw what was written, he gasped and raised his head. And Crowley even had the nerve to state:

"Next week. Quarter to 3, sharp."

He then tried to leave. But the angel objected, arguing that he won’t give him the demonic equivalent of a suicide pill. Crowley didn’t think much of it then, and only clarified with: “I’ll explain everything next week, angel. ‘Kay?” The angel (oh it was getting tiring. Why didn’t Crowley try to find out his name, for crying out loud?) only nodded, then left.

It was getting dark.

He wasn’t coming after all. 

Crowley practically pelted the ducks with the torn up crusts.

* * *

"Anthony J. Crowley. Your fame precedes you."

Having his human alias condescendingly announced by a bloody Nazi was not how Crowley imagined his proper introduction to the angel. Angel (what was this farce, always having to call him that because he did not know his name?) turned to Crowley, a shocked expression on his face. Practically clutching his pearls, poor chap. So Crowley steered his gaze away and pushed his glasses up his noses.

"Yeah? Well guess what? I slept through most of it." He crossed his arms and leaned against a pew. Not the best comeback, but really now, who wouldn't think straight when they've got consecrated ground scalding their feet?

“Look at that! Whole basin of Holy water lying around. Someone better put up a gate around that.” Look, angel, (Crowley didn’t know his name, this was the best he could do, ‘kay?) you’re off the hook. I can get my Holy water from somewhere else now. 

That was the long term issue sorted. As for the short term… well. Crowley did try to warn the Nazi spies that they should run away as far as they could. The bomb was supposed to drop on their end, after all, out of some indescribable error. A miracle that he and the angel emerged out of the rubble, with not a single scratch. 

But then Crowley realised something was wrong when the a troubled expression curdled onto the angel’s face. “Oh, the books!” He cried. “I’ve forgotten the books! They’ll be blown to smithereens!”

Miraculously, the bag of books the Nazis stole did not have a scratch either. 

Crowley picked up the bag from one of the agent’s detached hands and passed it to the angel. “Little demonic miracle of my own.”

The angel was gazing into Crowley’s eyes with a very vulnerable expression. Crowley never noticed how wide and blue those eyes were before. 

“Ciao,” said Crowley before he turned away. 

“Ciao?” The angel blinked with intrigue. “Ah. Italian.”

Crowley wrinkled his nose. “Uh, I mean salut. French-! Ironical how they’re on the British side now…”

But he faltered when he saw how the angel was smiling warmly at him. “Á bientôt, then.”

Á bientôt. See you again.

And then the angel was gone.

But somehow, amidst all the rubble of the church, in the foggy London evening, Crowley felt at peace.

He climbed into the Bentley and drove home. 

* * *

It was evening in Soho when Crowley had to storm across the street and climb inside the Bentley when he found the angel already camping inside. So Crowley screamed. Loudly.

"What. The Hell. Are you _doing_ IN MY CAR?!"

The angel blinked, then cleared his throat. "Why, there’s no need for that sort of language."

"Gave me quite the terrible shock, angel. Tsk, tsk, without so much as an invitation."

"Grave apologies. I did not know much about your whereabouts. Erhm," he stuck out his hand, "Aziraphale."

"What?"

"My name is Aziraphale." And then he gave him a cordial smile. "Nice to meet you, Anthony." 

Crowley looked down at their hands when Aziraphale gave him a handshake, and gulped. His hands were softer than Crowley had imagined them to be.

The handshake, though formal, had quite the weight to it. Crowley knew his name now. And in his mind, he was not just the angel anymore.

Aziraphale. It was the key to his inner life that he offered to Crowley. A ghost of it was whispered by his tongue, wanting to engrave every syllable into his memory.

"I prefer Crowley, actually."

"Alright,” the angel, Aziraphale, replied. “Now. I perused your offer from that other time."

Crowley blinked. “Oh-! Why. No, no need. I’ve got… other sources.”

“Other not as reputable sources. I work in Soho, I hear things.”

Crowley tilted his head. Yes, they lived in the same city now, for centuries. Funny how they hardly bumped into each other. Then, perhaps, because of the incident 200 years prior, Aziraphale wouldn’t want to see Crowley again out of second-hand embarrassment.”

“You can call off the robbery,” Aziraphale assured. And then he presented an object.

A thermos. 

Crowley’s eyes widened. Then, delicately, Aziraphale passed the bottle from his own hand into Crowley’s. The surface was dry and smooth. Aziraphale probably wiped it down with a flannel, too. Crowley squinted at the pattern. 

"Tartan."

"It's stylish!" Aziraphale insisted. "Do put good use to it if you must."

Crowley palmed the cylinder. He swished it a little, and the Holy water inside swirled. “Lift home?” He inquired. 

And so Aziraphale gave directions to where he lived. A bookshop. Of course. From the limited knowledge Crowley had of Aziraphale, the shop fitted him. 

“Well,” Aziraphale announced as he stepped out of the Bentley. “That is that, then. The Holy water is delivered, and you don’t have a reason to see me anymore.” No… he supposed not. “Great doing business with you, Crowley.”

When Aziraphale unlocked his shop and walked inside, Crowley had to restrain himself from following.

Wait, he wanted to say.

Don't go. 

* * *

He did not see Aziraphale around as much after that. Crowley had been busy.

More specifically, _Ms. Ashtoreth_ had been busy being the nanny to the Antichrist, Warlock. The plan was that if he managed to disgust the Antichrist using enough gory details, the Antichrist wouldn’t want to carry through with Armageddon anymore. 

Similarly, Heaven sent down a gardener to thwart Ms. Ashtoreth’s efforts with the alias of Brother Francis (not to be confused with the Italian friar Francis of Assisi). But Ms. Ashtoreth did not focus much on the gardener and instead focused on teaching Warlock nursery rhymes about blood and brains. 

Of course, their bad blood started when Brother Francis dared to teach Warlock about good morals. Ms. Ashtoreth was scandalised when Warlock objected to her teachings with how Brother Francis taught him nonsense about how “Brother Snail and Sister Slug must be respected.”

“Don’t listen to him,” she hissed. “Listen to me.”

And so this cycle continued.

* * *

Why was Aziraphale at Warlock's eleventh birthday party?

No no, that question was too broad. Why was Aziraphale at Warlock's eleventh birthday party performing parlour tricks? No no, still too broad. Why was Aziraphale at Warlock's eleventh birthday party performing parlour tricks in a poor magician disguise when he could do real magic? (Well, miracles, but you get the idea.)

Crowley stared dumbfounded as Aziraphale pulled a rabbit out from his tophat. Warlock's friends ignored him to look at their own mobile devices. At least Aziraphale’s antics kept Crowley dumbfounded for long enough until he realised that the Hellhound was late. 

After the party turned to a disaster, they found sanctuary in the Bentley so that they needn’t be pelted by pieces of cake again. 

Crowley grumbled at how the cake pieces smudged onto the Bentley’s seats. The moist cakes would surely ruin the vintage leather. He managed to stall the voices of Hell who called Crowley through the radio, then deflated into the car’s seat.

"Wrong boy," Crowley hissed under his breath.

"Wrong… boy?" And Aziraphale let out an exasperated sigh. “Oh dear.”

Crowley screamed and shook his head. Six years, wasted!”

Then, Aziraphale looked at him with a funny frown. "Six… years?” He lifted up a nervous smile. “Pardon me, Crowley, but were you the nanny?"

Crowley was about to slather objections over objections, but paused when he wondered how the angel knew about a piece of trivia so vague. Then he took a rather long look at Aziraphale and squinted.

"... You can't be serious."

* * *

It was a long story.

First there was the chapel of the Satanic nuns which was transformed into a paintball range. Then there was the book girl and her bike. Then there was this prophecy book from a Puritan witch named Agnes Nutter. They had an argument. Crowley killed one of his bosses with the Holy water. Aziraphale's bookshop caught on fire. Aziraphale was discorporated. Crowley cried. The M25 caught on fire. Crowley’s Bentley caught on fire. Crowley cried even more.

And it all came down to this.

They were facing Satan himself, and, in extension, Heaven and the rest of Hell, too, holding the hands of the real Antichrist. 

But they were not fighting alone anymore. They were fighting together.

* * *

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

The bookshop was closed.

Fuck this. Crowley marched towards the doors anyway and knocked. He waited for so long, and a measly little closed sign wasn’t going to stop him.

“I am quite afraid that we are closed…” Aziraphale sat beneath the Eastern side of the shop, of all places, a large pile of books by his side, a table of high tea in front of him. Yes, Crowley imagined that Aziraphale would bury himself up in some books, especially since they had all the time in the world now. 

Crowley sat down at the table, and Aziraphale tended him as if he was a special guest. They could not help but look around, but then relaxed. After all, Armageddon was over, and Heaven and Hell had no war anymore. 

"Biscuits?" Aziraphale offered. Crowley shook his head and continued to sip tea from the dainty China. 

An hour had passed, and though the tea stayed miraculously hot and the pastries fresh, not many words were uttered between them. Frankly it was driving Crowley bananas. And so Crowley asked the one question he was always itching to ask. 

"Must've gone down like a lead balloon.”

"Pardon?"

"I said: that must've gone down like a lead balloon. During Eden. Didn't you have a flaming sword?"

“... I, uh…”

“Yeah, it was flaming like anything. What happened to it?”

"Ah… I gave it away."

Crowley blinked. Then he blinked again. "You what?"


End file.
